


Bleeding, Not Dead

by angerhyn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood, Canon Deaths Mentioned, Cutting Mentioned, Gen, I probably missed things, M/M, Not really happy, Pain, Reckless behavior mentioned, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, but it's a thing, not my usual style either, self-abuse, this is triggery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 10:04:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4015621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angerhyn/pseuds/angerhyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She once told me, when my questions became too much, that she was going to take a nap, and not to wake her unless someone was bleeding or dead. Like the two were mutually exclusive. </p><p>Later, I thought they might be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bleeding, Not Dead

**Author's Note:**

> THERE ARE TRIGGERS IN THIS I AM NOT JOKING. SELF HARM, BLOOD PLAY(Sort of), NOT A HEALTHY MENTAL STATE. 
> 
> This is what happens when you leave me alone during my break at work. The original copy of this wasn’t nearly the same, but the feel is there. But yes. Triggers. And this is weird, not gonna lie. It’s not what I usually write. It was a little bit of a challenge. I… like it? Not necessarily the content, but I think it came out well for being something outside of my comfort zone. So. Yeah.
> 
> I posted this on tumblr a while back, but I decided I might as well post it here since my last two fics got some attention.

It wasn’t always like this. 

Once upon a time, he would have cringed away from the sight of blood. His stomach would have rolled, he might even have thrown up. Once upon a time, the very idea of bleeding or seeing someone he loved bleeding would have upset him beyond anything else. 

But that was  _before_. 

 _She_  once told him, when he his questions were endless and her head was hurting, that she was going to lay down, and not to wake her up unless someone was bleeding or dying. 

Like the two were mutually exclusive.  

It was after treatments and medicine and panic attacks that the thought occurred to him that, maybe, they were. 

The dead don’t bleed. To bleed, your heart has to beat. Looking back, it was probably knowing that, even before  _it_  happened, that planted the seeds for the monster he would one day become. 

The first time it happened, it was an accident. He tripped, he fell. Blood welled up. He cried, because it hurt. But suddenly, it was like the hot, painful ball of misery and frustration and  _anger_  was suddenly gone. It wasn’t painful, not as painful as the scrape. And the blood meant that he was alive, he wasn’t really dying, even if it felt like it.

But he didn’t do anything about it. Not at first. At first, he ignored it. It was strange, wasn’t it, to feel good when pain settled in, when agony ripped through him. He was clumsy enough he didn’t have to hurt himself, not intentionally. And it wasn’t like he felt pleasure in the pain of other people, either. Not really. 

And then it suddenly wasn’t enough. He needed more. Sure, it helped, seeing his own blood. But it didn’t compare to seeing blood well up on someone else, on having that reassurance that they were alive, they weren’t going anywhere. They were alive, they might be hurting, but the pain would fade. 

Sometimes the sight of it was enough. For the longest time, he didn’t need more than that. The smell wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t very strong, either. Seeing it was enough. 

Until it wasn’t. Until the first time he tasted it. His best friend got a papercut, was upset about it. Saliva helps with the healing. The first metallic tang on his tongue, the lingering copper taste, stayed with him for weeks afterwards. He could remember it, and it soothed him. 

He knew he couldn’t indulge often. But when he got the chance, a little taste here and there. Only his own, after that time. He wouldn’t hurt someone else for the sake of his own ease of mind.

It didn’t stop. Medication only helped so far, and when it didn’t, maybe he wasn’t as careful as he should have been. Maybe he went out of his way to put himself in a situation where he could bleed. He didn’t take a knife to his skin, didn’t fall into that addiction, such as it was. 

No one was any wiser about it. Not even when werewolves became a thing, and suddenly, danger was around every corner. He didn’t need to indulge in his own danger as much–the people around him ended up hurt enough that it eased the tightness a little. Even if he did feel shame at his reaction to their hurt. 

But then some of them stopped bleeding, and that wasn’t good. That much blood, that wasn’t what he wanted. Suddenly it was spiraling, he was spiraling. Blood. Pain. No sleep. Coiled tighter and tighter and tighter and–

And then silence. Less attacks. Less pain less anger. No one was getting hurt anymore. There weren’t as many people to get hurt any more. Not ones that mattered. Not ones that were important. His people were still bleeding, even if he couldn’t always see it. So he made himself bleed. He was careful, he thought. He thought he could handle it. 

Until he couldn’t. Until it was too much. It wasn’t the pain he wanted, it was the blood. He just needed to see it. Just needed to know he was bleeding and not dead. But he almost was dead. If not for  _him_ , he would have been.

The change between them was gradual. He hurt, and  _he_  hurt. Two different kinds of hurt, two different types of damage. The first time it was an accident. They were fighting and yelling and then they weren’t yelling anymore. They were bruising each other with lips and teeth and fingers, and the bruises stayed on him, but not on  _him._

The sex was good. The sex was hot. The sex took his mind of the coil for just a little bit. Just a moment. He could sleep. 

The first time he bit  _him_  during sex, he didn’t mean to draw blood. A little too hard. But neither of them pulled away.  _He_  needed to feel the pain, to lift some of the guilt  _he_  felt. And he needed the blood, the taste, and the knowledge that the wound would fade away like it never happened. 

They both needed to know they were bleeding, not dead. 

The first time Stiles came with Derek’s blood on his tongue, he slept. He slept and for the first time, he was sated, the coil in his stomach gone and forgotten until the next time.


End file.
